Breath 27
“Put your rifle down,” he growled. “Now.”
The Barista hesitated, his breath fogging in the warm desert air.
Then, slowly—arms raised—he let the weapon
slip from his hands and thud to the sand.
“Okay… okay. Just don’t shoot.”
Nick kicked the rifle away without taking his eyes off him.
“Where is Tom?”
The Barista’s lips twitched, as if holding back a smirk.
“I saw you during the raid,” he said.
“At the restaurant. You were working with my brother, right?”
Nick’s grip tightened.
“What I don’t get…” The Barista’s voice turned sharp, bitter.
“Is why him? He’s illegal. You killed my brother… for what?
For someone like Tom? someone illegal?
We’re suppose to be on the same team.”
Nick stepped in, his chest nearly touching the Barista’s.
“We’re not on the same team,” he hissed.
“And stop calling him illegal. He’s a person. A human being.
Just like you. Just like me.”
The Barista laughed under his breath, a mirthless sound.
“Human? Sure. But your ‘human’ came here to take what wasn’t his.
Jobs. Space. Rights. You think we’re the same?
We bleed the same blood?
Then tell me why they get to break the law and still get protected?”
Nick's voice shook now, fury and sorrow mixing in his throat.
“You think this is about jobs? You think this is about fucking borders?
Let me drill this on your head, sometimes it’s also about love”
“So you love him? How can you love someone like him?
That’s disgusting. He’s an illegal. He doesn’t belong here.
He’s not entitled to anything, not even love.
But here’s what I find funny, when I was drilling him on the floor,
he’s screaming like a fucking whore.”
Nick punched the Barista.
His hand shot forward and grabbed the Barista by the collar,
yanking him close. Their faces were inches apart.
“Where is Tom? Did you kill him?”
Nick snarled. “Did you fucking kill Tom?”
The Barista’s eyes gleamed coldly.
“The real question,” he whispered, “isn’t if I killed him. It’s who else killed him and how.
The Barista looked up to the night sky.
Nick’s gaze darted upward instinctively—and that’s when he saw it.
A black plume curling in the distance, rising from the desert like a scream no one could hear.
His breath hitched. “Fuck.”
Then chaos.
The Barista moved in a blur, reaching for a blade strapped to his ankle.
The knife arced up toward Nick’s throat—but Nick twisted just in time.
The blade grazed his neck, missing the artery by an inch.
His own gun barked in response.
The shot punched straight into the Barista’s chest.
He staggered backward, clutching the wound, stunned.
The knife clattered to the ground. He dropped to his knees first,
then crumpled completely, dust puffing beneath him like a dying breath.
Nick stood frozen for half a second, panting, the metallic tang of blood in his mouth.
Then he bolted.
Over the rise, toward the smoke.
Toward the place where maybe—just maybe—Tom was still alive.
His boots pounded the sand, adrenaline roaring in his ears,
the horizon swimming with heat and dread.
His throat burned with the words he hadn’t had the chance to say.
Hold on, Tom. Please. Just hold on.
